The Funeral
Mas got the urgent evening call from her mom. The kind of phone call that feels like a physical blow, causing her to fall down from her chair with tears. "It was his heart, Mas. So sudden," her mother’s voice was a brittle whisper. Her dad passed away. Crying non-stop, Mas called her fiancé, Azman.
The two-hour drive north was a blur of silence and gasping sobs. Azman drove with a focused intensity. He reached for her hand every few minutes, a silent affirmation.
Azman: "Don't worry about anything, Mas. I'll handle the funeral arrangements, the guests... just focus on being with your family." Mas (whispering): "He won't be there... at our wedding, Azman. He won't walk me down, be my wali."
In that moment, she didn't just feel the loss of her dad; she felt the loss of all the future memories. She gripped a crumpled picture from her wallet—a rare, laughing selfie with her dad from the last Hari Raya Puasa.
The Rites and The Guilt
They arrived where the air was thick with the scent of flowers and camphor. Her family—her mom, sisters, and brothers—were a tableau of shared sorrow. Mas laid a trembling hand on her dad's chest. It was cold. She kissed his cold forehead, asking for forgiveness—not for a great sin, but for the countless times she prioritised her demanding job over a weekend trip home.
Three days after the burial, the family gathered for the kenduri tahlil (prayer/memorial feast). Her youngest sister Ana, mascara tracks still visible, broke down describing her guilt. "I hung up on him last week because I was rushing to meet my friends. I just said, 'Bye, Dad, busy!' I didn't even say I love you." Mas listened, the knot of her own guilt tightening.
Mas and her father had been in a fragile place of repair. She was starting to shed her "brat" phase, acknowledging how her teenage defensiveness had pushed him away. She accepted that it was okay to miss him, and to be sorrowful that she didn't have a better relationship with him earlier.
The Anecdotes and The Unexpected Peace
Ten days later, the second kenduri tahlil brought a different energy. After the prayers, friends and family sat together on the mat, sharing lively anecdotes.
Puan Fatimah finally shed her rigid control, giggling as she remembered his out-of-tune guitar playing. "You know your dad loves David Gray, he sang his song regularly, played his guitar out of tune. I hated it so much, but I never told him."
Then, Mat, his best friend, revealed a secret. "Your dad was in a community nasyid choir for two years, Mas. He never told anyone. He said he just needed a place to sing without his children laughing at him." Mas was stunned. A choir? Her quiet, melancholic father?
She heard so many stories—his fishing trips, the lost kopiah (prayer cap) inside the car, his deep philosophical chats over morning breakfast—stories she had never heard of. She realized her father was a man with a rich, secret inner life. She felt incredibly connected to him—and, unexpectedly, at peace with her grief.
The Silence After the Storm
Four months passed. Mas returned to her job in the city, but the vibrancy was gone. Azman, eager to help, kept mentioning their postponed wedding, suggesting new dates and venues. Mas felt numb. The intense, communal mourning had ended.
She deeply desired for people to ask about her dad, to check in on her. Yet, everyone had seemingly moved on—back to traffic, spreadsheets, and party planning. She felt painfully alone.
One evening, while Azman was at a work dinner, Mas found herself staring at the empty space where her father used to sit in the kitchen. In that quiet, aching moment, Mas realized that living and dying are the same… hard, beautiful, painful, bittersweet, and unpredictable.
She didn't know if "better" was the correct word. Some days she could think about him and not fall into a crying heap. Other days, she couldn't handle the fact that he was gone, missing his presence and the bond they were building. She knew that turning on the 90s music playlist would make dinosaur tears run over her smiling cheeks.
She hit play. David Gray.
As the lyrics to "Gutters Full of Rain" filled her small apartment, the song—her dad's favourite—became a physical link to him.
A gutter full of rain An empty picture frame A house out at the edges of the city Never noticing the war 'Till it's right there at your door And suddenly your hands are bloody
The lyrics used to feel dark and abstract. Now, they felt real: the sudden, bloody reality of loss at her door. Yet, the music wasn't just grief; it was his voice, his slightly off-key hum. It brought her to a peaceful place of remembrance—a new kind of bond built not on the life she lost, but on the man she was still discovering.
Tessa Yusoff
6 November 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#family #deathinthefamily #sadness #tearjeeker
Zainab hasn't slept in days, and the culprit isn't a city siren, but a persistent tap-tapping from her roof. Is it a spooky echo of the Burung Hantu—the Ghost Bird—from her kampung past, or simply the strange rhythms of mating season, as her neighbour claims? Exhausted and facing a major deadline, Zainab decides to confront the tiny, tireless dancer with the only weapon she has: the porch light.
The Ghost Bird's Rhythm
The rhythmic, insistent tap-tap-tap against the ceiling was driving Zainab to the edge. For three nights, sleep had been a distant, mocking promise. She lay rigid beneath the duvet, eyes wide in the gloom of her city townhouse, the sound vibrating through the concrete, a frantic, tiny drumming that felt targeted, personal.
“A ghost,” she whispered into the silence, the idea blooming from a fertile patch of fear. It was an echo from her childhood, the chilling kampung tales whispered under kerosene lamps—of pontianaks and toyols, and sometimes, a restless spirit whose footsteps mimicked life.
A memory shivered through her: the first and only time she’d seen an owl. She was small, and it was perched silently on the old wooden roof of her childhood home, its flat, disk-like face staring down. She screamed and ran to her mother. Her mother had simply smiled, calling it Burung Hantu—the Ghost Bird. The name had stuck in her mind, a fusion of fright and fascination. Ghost bird. It had looked spectral, yet, she conceded now, its face had been strangely cute in a fleeting glimpse.
The present-day tapping intensified, an aggressive, percussive flourish.
She dragged herself to the window. Her neighbour, Fatima, a woman with an unflappable pragmatism, had laughed when Zainab tentatively mentioned the roof-ghost. "Birds, Zainab! It’s mating season. They fight, they tap, they dance! Happens every year.”
Tap dancing to mate? Zainab had thought it ridiculous. Love, in her experience, was more like the graceful, silent glide of the white bird she occasionally glimpsed near the city lake, a stately swan, perhaps, or an egret. Not this crazed flamenco on her roof tiles.
Last night, after Fatima’s advice, she flipped the switch for the porch light. The sudden flood of yellow light had, miraculously, silenced the tapping. She’d slept four blessed hours.
Now, as the drumming began again, lighter but unmistakable, she was exhausted. She was a proposal away from a major client contract, and her thoughts were swimming in a fog of fatigue. I need to sleep well to think straight. Or else I need to move somewhere quiet.
She walked to the kitchenette and poured a mug of strong, warm tea. She took a slow, deep sip, gazing out the window at the distant, hazy city skyline. From her Bluetooth speaker, David Gray’s husky voice drifted through the air, singing his haunting melody:
“...Like the birds of the high arctic, Like the birds of the high arctic...”
The words resonated with the primal, migratory urge of the creatures overhead. She also heard, faintly, the familiar, distant "cuk-cuk" of the nightjar—another nocturnal rhythm that haunted the urban periphery, another ghost of the kampung.
It’s not a ghost, she told herself firmly. It's a bird. A very irritating, possibly heartbroken, Tap Dancing Bird.
She put down her tea, her decision made. She wouldn't let a feathered dancer dictate her sleep or her career. She strode to the light switch, her gaze already hardened with resolve.
"Alright, you,” she muttered to the ceiling. "Let's see you dance under the spotlight." She flipped the switch, flooding the porch with light, silencing the tapping instantly. She took a deep, steadying breath, the faint aroma of jasmine from her tea calming her nerves.
Tonight, she wouldn't wait for the birds to leave. She would work. And maybe, just maybe, she’d stay up long enough to catch a glimpse of the culprit—a real, feathery dancer—and finally put the Burung Hantu of her fears to rest.
Tessa Yusoff
27 October 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#birds #city #nightjars #tap
The Unspoken Waiting at the Commuter Line
It’s the Kuala Lumpur commute. If you live here, you know it’s a soul-crushing time-suck. That’s why I, like so many others, leave my trusty Myvi in the crowded parking lot near the station. Thirty minutes on the train to the city center beats an hour of bumper-to-bumper anguish on the highway any day. The daily grind is hectic enough without adding road rage to the mix.
My routine is set: park, tap my card, find my spot on the platform. And every morning, for months now, I’ve seen Madam Choo.
She sits on the same wooden bench, always alone. I pegged her to be in her late sixties, maybe early seventies—a slight, silver-haired figure, eyes fixed on the track as if willing the next train to arrive sooner. I’d always wondered: Is she meeting someone? Is her journey only just beginning? But then, every evening, when I’d return, weary from a day of spreadsheets and deadlines, she would still be there. Waiting.
The human mind can only tolerate so much mystery on its periphery. One evening, the question finally outweighed my fatigue. I diverted from the exit and walked into the small station office.
The middle-aged staff member, busy filling out a ledger, gave me a patient look. “The elderly lady on the bench, Madam Choo?” she asked, already knowing.
The story she told me felt less like a local anecdote and more like a line from a heartbreaking play. Madam Choo, I learned, had been coming to the station for over a year. Her son, an accountant, took this line to work every day. He was due to catch his usual evening train home, but on that day, he never made it to the platform. He suffered a sudden, fatal heart attack at his office desk.
“His daughter picks her up every evening, around six-thirty,” the staff member explained softly. “Madam Choo knows he’s gone. But she says he never said goodbye, so she waits. She believes that if she’s here, he will step off that train, just like always.”
Sambal Sotong and Silence
The next evening, I got off work a little early and detoured to a famous stall near my office. I bought a box of kueh—those beautiful, colourful Malaysian cakes—the kind that feel like a small comfort after a long day.
When I approached the bench, Madam Choo looked particularly frail, her shoulders slightly slumped.
“Hello, Madam Choo,” I said, holding up the box. “Do you mind if I join you for a bit?”
She gave a gentle, almost surprised smile. “Oh, yes, please, dear.”
We shared the kueh. As the evening rush faded into a quieter lull, she started to talk. She spoke about her son’s job, his kind heart, and the dinner she always had waiting for him. Sambal sotong was his favourite.
“It’s ready now,” she confided, her gaze drifting back to the rails. “He’ll be hungry. I just know he’ll be here soon.”
My heart felt heavy and hollow all at once. It wasn't senility; it was a pure, desperate refusal to let go of the last, unbroken thread of their shared routine. She was waiting for her son to keep his promise, a promise that had been brutally interrupted a few hundred meters away.
The Empty Bench
I left Madam Choo that night feeling an emotional weight I hadn't expected from a chance encounter.
The next morning, the bench was empty.
For the next two days, the same—just an expanse of worn wood where a quiet figure used to sit. The absence was startling; the waiting had become as much a part of the station’s landscape as the ticket machines.
On the fourth day, I walked into the station office again.
“Madam Choo?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
The same staff member looked up, her expression a mix of gentle sadness and acceptance. “Oh, she passed away a few days ago. In her sleep. We miss her sitting there.”
She didn't miss her train this time. She finally went home.
I got onto the platform, my usual thirty-minute trip suddenly feeling endless. I put my headphones on and clicked on David Gray's "The One I Love." The lyrics hit me with a raw, unexpected force:
Tell the repo man / And the stars above / That you’re the one I love...
Tears blurred the faces of the other commuters. I sat in my Myvi after getting back, just sobbing for a woman whose name I'd only recently learned, for a son I'd never met, and for the universal human need for a proper goodbye.
Finally, I picked up my phone. I dialled my mother, who lives a short drive away.
“Hi, Ma,” I choked out. “I’m coming over. Soon. I brought some kueh from the office.”
Because sometimes, you don't realize how precious a simple, mundane arrival is until you witness someone waiting for one that will never come.
TESSA YUSOFF
5 October 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#lrt #city #passengers #commuters #mysteries
The Rawang Toll
The sun was a lazy smear of gold over the hills as Lana drove her little Ativa along the highway to Rawang. On the radio, David Gray’s voice filled the car, a low, melancholy hum. Munir was quiet in the back, while Eva, in the passenger seat, looked out at the passing green.
“Why are David Gray songs always on your playlist?” Eva’s voice was sharp, cutting through the music. “Why not Ed Sheeran or Jamal Abdillah?”
Lana smiled, not taking her eyes off the road. “Because I love David Gray more than the rest.” She paused, a glint in her eye. “Besides, imagine Jamal Abdillah and his ‘Kekasih Awal dan Akhir’ right now. I’d be full-blown to love.”
The joke landed, and a small, wry smile touched Eva’s lips. “So what do you think of this song?” Lana asked, gesturing vaguely toward the speakers.
Munir shifted in the back, leaning forward between the two front seats. “I don’t know this one,” he said, his voice softer than Lana’s or Eva’s. “But I’ve had bad experiences with hospitals. It’s not the food, it’s the environment. The smell of medicine, the feeling of being trapped, helpless. People dying, moving in and out of those theatre rooms, it’s a whole different world.”
Eva nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s true. My brother was admitted for a few days and he just kept screaming, ‘I want to go home.’ His wife was so upset; he kept calling her while she was at work.”
Lana tried to steer the conversation back to a more technical, less emotional topic. “In Malaysia, for example,” she said cheerfully, “some government hospitals use a ‘bulk trolley system.’ Some studies show it keeps food texture and temperature better than plated systems.”
Munir sighed, the sound of it full of old frustration. “It’s not the food, Lana. It’s the environment. No one wants to be in a hospital, unless your house has been wrecked by a big tornado.”
The music swelled, and Eva looked at Lana. “Maybe this ‘Hospital Food’ song is symbolic of something else,” she mused. “Maybe it’s about freedom versus being locked up and constantly monitored, being in a controlled position. It’s not a good feeling to be in that situation.”
Munir leaned back, folding his arms. “I think David Gray sang beautifully. He's a great musician and a good songwriter. I’ve known him since the 90s. But hospitals, I hate them. You should try going to a government hospital. The long wait, hours to see a doctor. And if you get admitted, there’s no room and you sleep along the corridor or on benches. It’s an ugly sight, even if the food is good.”
Lana fell silent, concentrating on her driving. The conversation was a storm of conflicting perspectives, a chaotic symphony of personal experiences and practical observations. She tried one more time to find a common ground. “You can find patient reviews for specific government hospitals on platforms like Yelp or Indeed, but be aware that they're often informal.”
Eva scoffed softly. “That’s social media reviews. Customer feedback, testimonials, ratings shared on platforms like Facebook, Instagram, and Google. It’s a crucial form of social proof and user-generated content, or so I’ve been told.”
“You disagree with that?” Lana asked.
“Not really,” Eva replied. “It’s just a tool.”
“Real people’s experiences matter,” Munir said quietly from the backseat, his voice final.
Lana finally broke the tension. “Looks like we’re at the Rawang toll now. Anyone need to go to the restroom?”
“Me!” Eva exclaimed, her voice returning to its normal, high-pitched self. The emotional weight of the conversation lifted, replaced by the simple, urgent reality of an empty bladder. The tollbooth was a gate, not to a hospital, but to temporary freedom.
TESSA YUSOFF
25 September 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#hospital #food #travel #proton
The Durian Detour
The Proton X70 hummed along the North-South Expressway, a silver streak against the green Malaysian landscape. Inside, the air was thick with easy laughter and the melancholic strains of David Gray’s "Dear Life." Mina, hands light on the wheel, glanced at the rearview mirror, a small smile playing on her lips as she listened to the banter from the backseat.
“Whose album is that?” Yati asked, her voice a warm murmur from the back.
Mina, eyes fixed on the road, replied, “David Gray’s latest. It’s called ‘Dear Life.’”
“Huh, never heard of him,” Yati mused. “But his voice… it’s nice. Suitable for bedtime, actually.”
Rani, ever the historian of trivial facts, chimed in. “Oh, he was big in the 90s. Don’t know much about him though. Married, two kids, British. No pictures of the family, though. Maybe they’re just… figments of his imagination.”
Mina chuckled, a hint of something mischievous in her eyes. “People love mysteries, don’t they?”
A wave of giggles swept through the car. “Like the mystery of rubbish in Turun Anwar,” Yati added, and the laughter erupted again.
Rita, quiet until now, turned to Mina. “Mina, your brother-in-law is a musician, right?”
Mina hesitated for a beat, then replied, “Yeah, he’s always in the studio, day and night. Other than that, a regular guy. He and my sister are on holiday in Bintan Island for a week.”
Jen, who had been drumming her fingers on the dashboard, suddenly piped up, “What if there’s no durian? This whole trip will be for nothing!” Her voice held a mock-dramatic tone.
Mina, ever the pragmatist, offered reassurance. “Even without durian, there’ll be something. We have nasi padang, and the famous Yik Mun Pau. Lots of options.”
Rani’s eyes lit up. “Yik Mun Pau! My dad used to buy them every time he came back from KL. It’s been a familiar sight since my school days.”
“Yes, I know Yik Mun Pau,” Jen agreed, a wistful note in her voice. “But the taste has changed, hasn’t it? Not like before. So many frozen paus now. Nothing fresh.”
“So, what about this nasi padang?” Rita asked, her curiosity piqued. “I don’t know that one.”
“There’s a small shop, famous with people from out of town,” Mina explained. “A bit expensive, but so tasty.”
Yati, gazing out the window, suddenly said, “You know, there’s a KTM from Shah Alam to Tanjong Malim. I’ve thought of taking it one of these days.”
“That’s an interesting train ride,” Mina replied, her eyes briefly meeting Yati’s in the rearview mirror.
Just then, Rita pointed ahead. “Mina, I see R & R. We can take a short rest.”
Mina nodded, steering the Proton X70 towards the exit. As they pulled into the Rest and Relax area, the familiar strains of David Gray faded, replaced by the excited chatter of five friends, ready for whatever mysteries and delights Tanjong Malim held, durian or not. Yet, as they stretched their legs, a quiet thought lingered in Mina's mind, a melody unseen, unheard, a secret that was as much a part of her world as the durian they sought and the brother-in-law she’d just mentioned. After all, sometimes the best mysteries aren't about what you don't know, but about what you choose not to say.
Tessa Yusoff
1 August 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#tanjungmalim #davidgray #durian #mysteries
"Who is David Gray? That was Timah question! Now, his voice in 'After the Harvest' echoes the golden fields of Sekinchan and the diligent hands of Timah's parents. This song, this album, truly bridges her past and present. A beautiful reminder that 'Dear Life' still holds so many unexpected harmonies.
After the Harvest: A New Melody
Timah recently celebrated her 58th birthday with her children, a simple affair at a neighborhood restaurant. The air was filled with the comforting aromas of Malaysian favorites: rich masak lemak itik salai, spicy kari kepala ikan, and savory sayur kangkung belacan.
Her eldest daughter, ever thoughtful, presented her with a CD titled "Dear Life." Timah wasn't disappointed, but the album's title made her feel a pang of age. "Dear Life," she mused. "Am I really that old?" She wasn't sure if she knew the singer. "Who is David Gray?" she asked. Her daughter explained he was a British singer-songwriter, famous for a song called "Babylon." Timah chuckled, thinking of Boney M.'s disco hit "Rivers of Babylon."
For a few days, the CD sat on her table, an intriguing mystery. Finally, curiosity won, and she decided to play it. The moment the music began, Timah was captivated. His voice—glorious, distinct, and beautiful, she thought. The song "After the Harvest" started, and with it, a journey back in time.
She was transported to Sekinchan, to the rice fields where her parents, padi farmers, toiled. She remembered the post-harvest ritual: spreading the rice on tarps, stirring it meticulously, meticulously picking out stray leaves and dirt. Her father would sometimes slip away to the coffee shop for a break, while her mother's sewing machine hummed a steady rhythm.
But then, a different image surfaced as the lyrics washed over her:
"And maybe I should know better / Than to take it personally / When the hand that wrote the love letter / Decides to write you out the story."
Timah paused, a frown creasing her brow. "Is this guy sad?" she wondered aloud. For her, "after the harvest" meant relaxation, a time for new ventures to bring in income, lessons instilled by her parents. Why would he be sad? Was it a love gone wrong? Who could possibly hurt someone with such a beautiful, distinctive voice? Perhaps, she concluded, it was just his imagination. Regardless, it was a truly beautiful song to listen to.
As the last notes faded, Timah found herself smiling. Even if she didn't fully grasp the melancholy behind the lyrics, the music itself had stirred something within her. It was a bridge between her past and present, a reminder that even new, unfamiliar melodies could resonate deeply, offering comfort and sparking reflection. She looked at the CD case again, "Dear Life." Perhaps life, with all its unexpected turns and new discoveries, wasn't so bad after all.
Tessa Yusoff
29 July 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#Storytelling #FolkMusic #PersonalJourney #Blogspot"
The Echo of Plus and Minus
John sat on the worn wooden bench, the morning sun dappling through the leaves above. His jogging suit, though clean, carried the faint scent of countless runs that never quite happened. Around him, the park buzzed with the quiet rhythm of life: a lone jogger pounding the path, a child's gleeful shriek from the playground, the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze. Through his phone, David Gray's voice filled his ears, the new song "Plus and Minus" an odd, almost unsettling melody.
"The following report may contain scenes that some might find upsetting,"
Gray crooned, and John felt a peculiar resonance. The lyrics, like phantom whispers, began to unravel the tangled threads of his own past and present.
He drifted back to the 80s, a kaleidoscope of scraped knees and endless summer afternoons spent building forts in the woods. Childhood then was a vast, untamed wilderness of independent exploration, a stark contrast to the digitally tethered, meticulously scheduled lives his own children now led. Their world was a tapestry woven with screens and structured playdates, a universe away from his youthful freedom.
The 90s arrived, bringing with them the sharp scent of photocopier toner and the rigid discipline of the workplace. He remembered the satisfying thud of the attendance book as he signed in, the crisp snap of the punch card marking his arrival. Administrative reforms, they called it, aimed at boosting productivity and discipline. Cubicles were fortresses of individual endeavor, and the notion of work-life balance was a distant, almost alien concept. Technology, in its nascent form, meant wrestling with sluggish computers and deciphering smudged fax transmissions. Physical documents reigned supreme, their weight a tangible representation of progress.
Then came 2022, and with it, the bittersweet release of retirement from the private sector. Three years ago this month, he'd stepped away, though it felt like an eternity. He’d seen the "unretirement" trend among his friends – a surprising return to the grind, fueled by a tight labor market, diminishing COVID-19 fears, and the persistent bite of inflation. "Retirement is not the end of the road," one friend had declared, his eyes bright with renewed purpose, "it is the beginning of the open highway."
John, however, had found his open highway leading straight to this park bench. He was a connoisseur of park life: the stately trees, the vibrant green of the grass, the riot of colors in the flowerbeds. He knew every creak of the swings, every gleam of the slides. The shimmering surface of the lake, the meandering walking paths – all were familiar companions. People of all ages drifted in and out of his periphery: lovers strolling hand-in-hand, families picnicking, teenagers laughing. He was just another one of them, merely passing the time. He had to stop daydreaming.
His doctor friend, a voice of reason in his increasingly meandering days, had stressed the importance of finding fulfilling activities in retirement. "Pursue hobbies, volunteer, travel, learn new skills, spend time with loved ones," he'd advised. "Stay physically and mentally active." John, though, just sat. And listened to David Gray. Perhaps, he mused, a job. A new one, where his time was exchanged for a tangible wage. Patrick Foley’s words echoed in his mind: "Retirement is a blank sheet of paper. It is a chance to redesign your life into something new and different."
The "Plus and Minus" of David Gray's song continued to play, its melancholic melody a backdrop to John's contemplation. Was this blank sheet of paper truly an opportunity, or just an expanse of white waiting to remain empty? He shifted on the bench, the smooth wood cool beneath his hand. Maybe it was time to put down the phone, to silence the echoes of the past, and to truly look at the present. The park wasn't just a place to pass time; it was a canvas. And perhaps, just perhaps, he still had some colors left to paint.
Tessa Yusoff
23 July 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
#plus #minus #past #present #comtemplation
